Wednesday, October 31, 2012

"There are plenty of rolls in the bakery, so stop pressing your nose against the window!"*

   It occurred to me for the 4000th time the other day that I’ve got a terrible dating track record. It came to me when I was cleaning out my inbox (a treasure trove, that) and found one of the many psychotic emails one of my ex’s sent me. What’s really unfortunate here is that the people I date seem to get WORSE as the years go on, not better. You’d think that as I got older my tastes would improve, become more refined. Maybe I’d start dating richer men or more educated ones. Maybe I’d date a guy who knew a lot about wine or loved to travel—even to places outside of California (that’s right, a trip to Joshua Tree doesn’t count, guy) or the immediate surrounding states (neither does Las Vegas). But I keep meeting tortured artist types who have no money and no real drive; who insist they’re cultured but have never been to a play let alone a foreign country; who brag about their accomplishments while managing to spend every night at home watching movies pirated from Netflix. (Is pirating DVD's an accomplishment? I'm pretty sure it's a crime.) But do you know what they all have in common? Me. They all dated me. I guess that makes me the crazy one.
   In the interest of taking a metaphorical deep breath and expunging some of the pent-up Ex Gunk from my lungs, I’ve decided to write a letter to an amalgam of all my boyfriends past. Not all of them were awful, but even some of the not-awful ones occasionally did insane and or annoying things. They could all stand to have a read, were I able to force them at gunpoint.

Dear Ex-Boyfriend/Guy I Dated for a While,
   Remember that time you got mad at me for being taller than you? That was a fun night! And what a useful, thought-provoking conversation that was.
   Or the time you cried on our second date? And then I kept going out with you anyway and you cried more? Yeah, cry in front of me once, shame on you. Cry in front of me dozens of times, shame on me.
   It was kind of annoying to listen to you complain about being an ethnic minority: not because you experienced racism but because you were embarrassed you weren’t white. Who exactly is the racist in that scenario?
   I’m pretty sure you were trying to make me fat so that no other guys would like me. Joke’s on you because LOTS of guys like chubsters. And there is a difference between “cooking” and “frying.”
   When you wore socks and sandals, I should’ve walked. That one’s definitely on me. I don’t care who you are or what you’re doing: you can’t ever do that. Ever. I know you say it was so you could take the garbage out without making your feet cold. I don't care. It's not okay. It's really not. I was equally upset that you cut your own hair. I didn’t say it then, but you looked like a freaking moron.
   You know how you never left a good tip anywhere? You’re a jackass. Please let me pay for my half. I offered, and if it means we won’t be screwing over the waitress, I’d rather pay for myself. Also it was getting difficult to secretely sneak money onto the table when your back was turned.
   You are ugly. Also you are fat. I thought you were funny and that kind of made up for it, but then you stopped being funny.
   You laugh like a girl. That would be okay if you weren't so ugly and fat.
   Remember how you begged me to be your girlfriend and I finally agreed (out of desperation, it would appear) and a month later you stopped taking my calls because you'd used your free time to get a new girlfriend? I thought that was kind of a jerk move.
   How about the time you took your rectal suppository while we were in the middle of an argument? That felt inappropriate of you, somehow.

   You know how you repeatedly let doors fall shut in my face? Any normal, self-respecting woman wouldn't have let that slide as long as I did. Just so you know. This may be another one that's totally my bad.
   Thanks for not mentioning your kid until our second date. That was a fun surprise!
   I don't care about the fact that you're bald, but maybe you should consider shaving your back. Even Wolverine can’t compare to you. And you don’t have Hugh Jackman’s body. If you did, we might still be together.

   Consider getting a job. I'm just saying. Your next girlfriend will appreciate it.
   I said your War Hammer figurines were cool. I was lying.
   I also didn’t appreciate having to watch VH1: Behind the Music’s Metallica episode every week because you were too stoned to remember you’d already seen it.
   You know how when I broke up with you, you told me no one would ever love me as much as you did, and even though we were breaking up I would always be your girl? Yeah well that ended up not being the case, just so you know.
   Thanks for the memories. Knowing you really taught me a lot.

   You know what? Now that I’ve been forced (albeit forced by myself) to dredge up memories of superbly ungentlemanly behavior, it doesn’t seem as bad as it did in my mind. I never dated any violent guys or any with severe drug problems. I never dated a guy who was secretly gay and sleeping with men behind my back (that I know of). I have a friend who dated a guy without a job, car or cell phone. And he would borrow her car and her cell phone and then complain about how well they did or did not perform. Hey, guy, get your own fucking cell phone!
   I'll meet my dream man one day. And he will be a cowboy/pirate who lassos and rides dragons. And instead of the dragon breathing fire, my boyfriend will breathe fire. And he will be grizzled and handsome in a sort of John Wayne kind of way: you know, attractive but not too attractive. Also he'll be rich and successful and have his own place. And he'll have a good name. Not "Chance" or "Preston" but something solid like "Benjamin" or "Horace." And he'll look like this:
Yeehaw! And also Arrrgghhh!
Disclaimer: I actually dated a couple really awesome guys that really didn’t do anything wrong. They were handsome, smart, and kind. They just weren’t right for me. Or they weren’t that into me. And based on the information above, I wouldn’t trust them much if they were.
*Quote from Pillow Talk (Michael Gordon, 1959). Rock Hudson says this to Doris Day with the implication being that there are plenty of other men out there so she should quit stalking him. I'd like to say the same to a few of my ex-boyfriends.

Monday, October 29, 2012

"Gracious! Do you think she's handsomely paid?"*

   Well, Halloween is upon us yet again and this year I dressed up and went out for the first time in…well, in a long time. And I went over to Tom and Jess’s for a Halloween party. And I dressed up like Holly Golightly.

Cigarette holder made of paper and a hard plastic straw that I spray painted. Then I had to tape the base of the straw so I wasn't eating paint all night long. Sexy? Slutty? Stupid? Who knows?
   Problem was, I think I was at the wrong party. Most of the other people were dressed like characters from King of Thrones or Adventure Time or some other obscure and/or fantastical TV show I haven’t seen and don’t know anything about. 

What other people wore.
Tom and Jess as Finn and Princess Bubblegum. 

   I didn’t know I was even going to the party until two days before and I figured I had a black dress and could make a long cigarette holder so I would be what I like best: a character from an old movie. (I’ve gone as Sugar Kane, Dorothy but also the Wicked Witch of the West (green face paint included), Sherlock Holmes, Dr.Frank-n-Furter and Wayne Campbell. Okay, Wayne’s World doesn’t really count as an “old” movie, but try telling that to anyone born in the 90’s.) I had no idea that I would end up looking like the one thing I was trying NOT to look like: the girl who dresses up like a slut because it’s Halloween. And I’m pretty sure I was the slut at this Halloween party. I was wearing a dress and heels and jewelry. Granted, my ass wasn’t hanging out and my boobs were fully covered, but when you’re standing next to a chick in full body armor or one in a monster suit made of felt, you feel a little slutty. Or maybe like you didn’t try hard enough. 
   I remember walking to a Halloween party when I was at USC. I was dressed like a pregnant nun and every other girl in the universe (especially the girls at the frat houses) was dressed like a slutty version of something. A slutty nurse. A slutty bumble bee. A slutty alien. I felt really unattractive, but I didn’t realize that Halloween had become a slut holiday. My mind raced back to previous costumes: Antigone, Cleopatra, Velma from Scooby-Doo, late-night waitress at crappy diner, Norman Bate’s mother. It became clear to me that I’d always dressed as a strong, fully clothed, independent and decidedly un-sexy lady (Cleopatra and Sugar Kane were kind of sexy, I guess; and Dr. Frank-n-Furter was a sexy man dressed like a sexy who knows where that one falls?). I felt like Lindsay Lohan’s character in Mean Girls who dresses like “an ex-wife” while all the other girls put on lingerie and animal ears.
   Side note: at the party I was drinking a beer when a slutty firefighter approached me and said, “You really shouldn’t be drinking while you’re pregnant. It’s bad for the baby.” Dead serious. If she’d been joking, we’d be best friends to this day.
   So at this party I felt like I was the slut and it wasn’t deserved. There were two awesome girls there dressed like a slutty devil and a slutty Ghost Buster (Egon? Venkman? Even she didn't know), so that helped a little bit. But they were only dressed that way because they were going to a “booty party” afterwards. So when they left I was alone again, feeling a tad too "attractive" for a Halloween party. 
   But mad props to all the people that went all-out Halloween at this party. It was truly impressive. Special mention has to go to Eric and Kelly, who were dressed as Walter and Jesse from Breaking Bad. That was pretty dope. And not at all slutty, though I did tell Eric he should be in his underpants.
   Next year I’m going as either Thriller-era Michael Jackson or any-era Freddie Mercury. That way I can be sexy but definitely not slutty. I am a lady, after all.
*Quote and costume inspiration courtesy of Breakfast at Tiffany's (Blake Edwards, 1961).
**I also went to a pumpkin carving party at Chad's on Friday where I ate copious meat pies from Porto's, watched Worst Witch (hooray Tim Curry!) and Club Dread (excellent) and made this:

You can't tell from the picture, but this is a white fairytale pumpkin. I had to throw it away today because it started rotting in the extreme heat. It wasn't pretty anymore.

Saturday, October 27, 2012

"There are no safe paths in this part of the world. Remember you are over the Edge of the Wild now, and in for all sorts of fun wherever you go."*

   So I stayed up super late the other night (as I am inclined to do) because I started watching Sherlock, the fourteen hundredth take on the Sherlock Holmes stories/character. My favorite remains (will always remain) the Jeremy Brett version from the early 90’s, but this one was pretty dang entertaining. Even if it is a little too modern for my taste. It’s kind of like Sherlock Holmes: SVU.  Or CSI: Sherlock Holmes.
   But that’s not what I want to talk about. I want to talk about Martin Freeman, who plays Dr. Watson. At this moment, he stands poised on the cusp of certain worldwide fame. He is Bilbo Baggins in the Peter Jackson movie(s) of The Hobbit. It’s perfect casting because he has a sweet, mushy, somewhat sexy-but-still-hobbit-like face. But I want to take a moment to appreciate his solid, journeyman-acting career to date. Because while he isn’t a household name yet, he will be in December.
   I want to take these last few weeks slowly. Maybe I’ll watch a season or two of The Office again or bust out Shawn of the Dead for his two-second cameo. It’s possible I’ll watch Love, Actually for the 300th time (yes, I watch that movie. It’s really good! It is! And it features Andrew Lincoln before he became the Southern-accented zombie-killing sheriff of Walking Dead). I may even bust out The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Who knows? I just want to spend some time celebrating him before he belongs to the whole goddamn universe, and people start treating him like he’s Robert Pattinson or Daniel Radcliffe.  Before people start digging through his garbage and hiding in the bushes in front of his London flat. For a few more weeks, I want to feel like he belongs to me (and whomever else happened to already know his name before The Hobbit). 
Martin Freeman as Dr. Watson.

   I should probably also address the fact that I've clearly got a problem with confusing people I know with people in movies/television. It may be the reason I treat US Weekly like it's the news or a college alumni newsletter. I can't help it. I just feels so real. But that's a post for another time.
*J.R.R. Tolkien's The Hobbit.

Monday, October 22, 2012

"This fresh air is getting into my lungs."*

   One of my favorite quotes of all time is from a calendar my mom gave me by Anne Taintor. The page featured a woman in a beautiful nightgown lying on a big, silky bed with her arm above her head and a huge smile on her face. The quote above was, “I love not camping.”
   Recently I was watching a movie where one character wanted to go to the beach and the other character wasn’t going to go because of ticks/sand/sunburn etc. And the one that was going to the beach said to the other, “Enjoy the great indoors.”
   Both of these quotes mean a lot to me, because over the years I’ve come to realize that I don’t really love communing with nature, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. People always talk about long walks on the beach and camping under the stars. They like to brag about SCUBA diving and skiing and running marathons. All of these things sound shitty to me.
   I don’t like sand in my shoes, clothes, hair or underpants. I burn approximately 8 seconds after stepping outdoors without a burqa. I don’t like sleeping on the ground and then waking up to spiders spooning me. (I thought sleeping on the ground was for people who couldn’t get a sober ride home from a party?) I don’t like sharks so I don’t try to go under the ocean’s surface to find them. I might enjoy skiing if I didn’t hate being cold and wasn’t afraid of falling. I only like running when I’m being chased, and even then I’m not a huge fan.
   The point I’m making is that I do enjoy nature and even love it a little bit, but I can appreciate it so much better from inside.
   See, when I’m inside, I can have things like heat, insulation, and air conditioning. I have electricity in my apartment, so I can do things like turn on lights and surf the Interwebs (the only web I like, incidentally, is the Interweb. Or the kind that is made by practicing to deceive—but I don’t like that kind too much, either. Not because honesty's best. Honesty's just way easier). I can do things like watch TV or read my book well after the sun has set. 
Air conditioning: I love not not having air conditioning.
   Another thing I like about the great indoors is the presence of plumbing. I really enjoy things like using a toilet for my business and being able to wipe with toilet paper and then flush and never see that business (or anyone else’s business) ever again. I like showering with water that comes from a tap (not a river or a stream) and is warm or even hot. And potable! Because I also enjoy drinking water that isn’t malarial or rife with fecal matter (I’m not a germaphobe, just a realist. I’ll eat moldy chicken or food off the floor, but I insist on clean-ish water. That’s just me). 
Toilets add rainbows to your business. Toilet paper helps!
   I would like to say that one of the best parts of being inside is the lack of insects, but as I’ve told you multiple times this year, my incredible apartment is home to all kinds of nature’s fascinating creatures. Bees, ants, and flies all call my apartment their home, but I’ve yet to see a spider. Of course now that I’ve said that, I’m probably fucked.
   Did I mention how amazing it is to have a refrigerator when you’re enjoying not being outside? It keeps your food fresh and you don’t have to keep dumping water out of it the way you do with those coolers. Also, it’s full of an array of edible goods. And when you run out of those, you can go to the store, which is located next to NO CAMPSITES EVER. 
Refrigerators are god's creations, too.
   I further appreciate the ability to change my clothes, should the inclination suit me. Sometime I feel too hot or too cold. I will then subtract or add clothing items as I see fit from the plethora of things that I have in my closet and drawers. If my socks get wet, I put on new socks. I’d like to see you try that when you’re hanging out at Joshua Tree.
   Not to seem super deep (because we all know I'm not), but I’ve done some soul searching on this issue and I think I have identified Nature’s most annoying quality. See, she’s all beautiful and magnificent and profoundly moving. All of these inconvenient truths force me into deep contemplation about my life and my choices and my gods and stuff like that. And I freak out a little when I have to think too hard. Being alone with my thoughts is kind of intimidating to me. It’s like a choose your own adventure book and I’m never sure if it’s going to work out or if it’s ever going to be concluded at all or if I’ll be eaten by a Minotaur before I even finish half of a thought. Thinking is scary and it makes me question my general state of being. Nature forces that on me, because it doesn’t distract me with its beauty the way a good book or movie or shopping trip does; it forces me to be present and to contemplate the moment.
   I really don’t like contemplating the moment.
   But there are exceptions.
   I like driving on the Pacific Coast Highway in the morning (before traffic) with the windows down and some great Led Zeppelin or Hall and Oates playing on the 8-track.
   I like reaching the top of a hill during a rough, heinous, sweaty, nauseating hike and then turning around to see how far I’ve come. Sometimes, on a clear day, you can see all the way to the goddamn ocean.
   I like the view from any given point of the rim of the Grand Canyon.
   I like watching the movie Jaws. Sharks are terrible, but Jaws is perfection.
   I like sitting around a campfire, especially in Tom and Jess’s** backyard. I even like the way I stink like fire smoke and their Boston terriers for days afterwards. (I'm sure if I showered more often with my precious plumbing this wouldn't be an issue.)
   I love sledding. The walk back up the hill sucks, but what are you gonna do? (Sledding = opposite of hiking?)
   I like most animals.
   I really like the moon. (From a distance! I don’t want to go there! NEVER!!!)
   I love elements of nature, no doubt. I was an outdoor kid growing up, with a box full of locust shells, constant skinned knees, and a bike that doubled as a horse. But nowadays I’m perfectly fine with my inside status.
   I just love not camping. It just feels right.
Right on! (Anne Taintor)
*From Jeeves and Wooster. One of the best comedy series (or any kind of series) ever made. Hugh Laurie plays a British person and his accent is REALLY BELIEVABLE! (J/K. It's not that believable.)
**Who just got engaged last night!!! I love them!!

Thursday, October 18, 2012

"Because in some men it is in them to give up everything personal at some time, before it ferments and poisons--throw it to some human being or some human idea. They have to. In some men it is in them."*

   There are things that you probably shouldn’t share with people because they are embarrassing/humiliating/shameful, but I don’t seem to have too many of these. I spent so much of my adolescence and teenage years (not to mention the better part of my twenties) feeling embarrassed, that I can’t afford to waste time on it anymore.
   For instance there’s the time when, in 5th grade, my mom bought me the COOLEST HAT IN THE WORLD. It was a winter hat but shaped like a baseball cap with flaps that came down over my ears and a string tie under the chin. And, oh yeah, IT WAS FUCKING HOT PINK. I died when she gave me that hat and I couldn’t wait to wear it to school.
   But when I walked down the driveway at St. Margaret Mary to line up for the first bell, Pat Raynor said, “Nice hat, dork.” And I never wore it again. Ever. I found it at my parents' house not too long ago and would definitely wear it now, but it won't fit over my enormous cranium.
   And then one time when I was 12 I called the Human Society sobbing because a dog had been hit by a car in front of my house and the woman who answered the phone said, “How old are you, young man?” I started crying even harder and promptly developed a phone phobia that only cleared up about two years ago.
   But no more.
   The only things that embarrass me these days are when someone acts appalled that I don’t know the name of a political figure or didn’t hear about something major that happened on the news within the last 4 months. I’m embarrassed about those things because they reflect on my hideous irresponsibility when it comes to educating myself on current events. They don’t really reflect on me as a person the way my clothes or voice do; they have something to do with making fun of my mind and spirit, which is legitimately unfortunate.
   I include this preface as a way of telling you about some of the things I do/have done on a regular basis that are shameful (or should be) but which, without mentioning them, I wouldn’t feel like the over-sharing, inappropriately frank person I have become.
   Here are some of the things that have happened to me recently (or a long time ago) that should embarrass me, but don’t:
1. A couple of days ago, I ate a piece of dark chocolate. Shortly thereafter I found a brown stain on my couch pillow. I got out the Resolve and tried to work the stain out of the pillow. Then I left the pillow to foam, replaced it with an identical pillow, and sat back down. When I got up again, there was another brown stain in the same spot. I repeated the stain removal routine and checked my shirt. No chocolate. Then I went into the bathroom and did a slow 360-degree rotation. There was a huge chunk of chocolate melted to my back. I basically ruined two pillows because I can’t keep food off my BACK? That’s asinine.
2. I decided to put the earring I normally wear in my right ear, (halfway between the top of the ear and the lobe), in my left earlobe. It was bugging me and I thought maybe my lobes could benefit from some earring practice, since they always get irritated, red, and itchy whenever I wear earrings. I thought I'd force my lobes into loving earrings. So I put in ONE earring. And then I forgot about it. For two days. So yesterday, I went to the grocery store with one earring in my left earlobe. Nice. I’m like a gay man from 1991. A total anachronism.

3. I don't really know my left from my right. Doing the L-shapes with my thumbs and pointers doesn't help, because I don't know if I'm looking at them or if I'm making the signs for someone else.
Should be embarrassing but isn't: I spent 38 minutes making my thumb into the chick from Prince's "Raspberry Beret".
4. I am currently reading a book called Jemima J. by a woman named Jane Green. It’s about a really fat chick that loses weight and then men fall in love with her. A time-tested story of romance. Classic. It wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t my 5th time reading it. But I’m a strong proponent of balancing quality reading with absolute trash. It keeps your brain humble. That is why I reread several pieces of crap each year: Best Friends, Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret, and Find a Stranger, Say Goodbye immediately come to mind. (The last two aren’t necessarily crap but, in fact, Young Adult books. I actually think they’re both quite beautifully written, albeit for 9-year-olds.)
Should be embarrassing but isn't: a new addition to the foyer of my apartment building.

5. Years ago, I walked to the gas station near my apartment to buy cigarettes after consuming many drinks. As I walked to the door, the cashier was outside smoking and asked if I’d like a drag. Since I was there for cigarettes, I really did want a drag and accepted. Only after inhaling did I realize that he was offering me a marijuana cigarette. He apologized when I looked surprised and I said it was okay. Then he asked for my number and in my inebriated honesty, I told him I didn’t want to date him because he was too short. He was pretty nice about it. He’s seen me since (I still live in the same neighborhood), but he’s never recognized me. Perhaps because he’s always high?
6. The other day I was eating deli turkey and hummus and only halfway through my snack did I realize the turkey had mold on 85% of it. I had eaten half the package.
7. I just cleaned the floors of the apartment I’ve lived in for 6 months for the first time 3 weeks ago. The amount of filth I pulled up explained a lot about the state of both my feet and my shower.

8. I have dyscalculia, insofar as I switch numbers around in my mind the way a person with dyslexia might. If I never called you, it's probably because I programmed your number in my phone wrong.
   That’s enough for now (though I could go on for ages). I don’t want to show all my cards just yet. I'm probably going to be one of those old ladies that's always trying to get naked in public and date 25-year-olds, but who cares? It’s been a hard week and I took the GRE again (did better!) and I feel like I have enough positive qualities to outweigh the heinousness that I share on a regular basis. Think of this post as watching a terrible car crash or accidentally seeing your fat neighbor naked and discovering you liked it. I just needed to get it out of my brain and into yours.
   You’re welcome!
*The last book I read before reuniting with Jemima J. Carson McCuller's The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. See? I don't just read crap. See?

Monday, October 15, 2012

"If you burn your neigbor's house down it doesn't make your house look any better."*

   I’m pretty sure one of my neighbors has tuberculosis. I believe the fancy term for that is “consumption.” Each night at approximately 9:30 p.m., someone goes into the bathroom that shares a wall with my living room and coughs like he or she has a huge hairball deep down in his/her lungs. Or a bale of hay. Or a meat grinder. Or a chainsaw.
   Why do I say his/her? Because my neighbors are very confusing people. They are, I think, a couple. I only think this because I’m pretty sure it’s a one-bedroom apartment. And I’m almost positive one of them is a man and one is a woman, which makes sharing a bedroom more difficult if you’re not a couple (and you're both straight). But it’s hard to say for sure. They’re both quite obese, and when I first moved in I thought they were a nerdy gay (male) couple that loved video games. Now I think they are an unconventional straight couple and the woman really loves baseball. The one I think is a woman has a relatively feminine face, but she has close-cropped hair and a deep voice. The one that looks like a man (Jay—he introduced himself (herself?) begrudgingly one time when I was warning him (her?) about my bee situation; P.S. he/she didn't care, even though I was trying to be a good neighbor and tell him/her to watch his/her back), has a mannish face but a very high voice. And sometimes he/she smokes cigars. The two of them have a screen door that closes with magnets (instantly!) and Jay (J? Jaye?) will often smoke his/her cigars just outside while lady-friend (man-friend?) watches some baseball and eats some/a lot of Cheetos. 
   Behold the screen:

   Whoever it is that coughs sounds a lot like a man, because the coughs are deep and throaty and baritone. But who’s to say that Jay’s girlfriend (boyfriend?) isn’t a deep, throaty cougher? (FYI: it seems "cougher" is not a word. I'm coining it. Dibs!) I only mention it because it’s actually kind of disgusting and drives me up the wall. But I’m sure that I make noises that annoy the shit out of them as well. I just hope the coughing isn’t a result of one of them having cystic fibrosis. (Although, and I'm not trying to be insensitive here but medical: I'm pretty sure people with cystic fibrosis have to do their coughing in the morning, not in the evening.) If one of them actually has CF, that'll suck...mostly because I'll feel guilty for complaining.
   Also, my fascination with who’s who in this sexual/romantic/mystery relationship has more to do with my innate need to label people and put them into tidy little compartments so I can move on with my life and free up gray matter. Think of it as Tupperware of the mind. (Though I’m pretty positive the Tupperware cabinet of my mind looks a lot like the Tupperware cabinet of my kitchen—and my Mom’s kitchen, too: half of it is mismatched and 90% of the lids are missing.)
   In other news from my increasingly classless apartment building: someone left this on top of the recycle bin this morning:
My garage is full of treasures.
   Please forgive the poor quality of the photo. It was 6:45 a.m., I was on 4 hours of sleep and there wasn’t much light and oh yeah, I’m a SHITTY PHOTOGRAPHER.
   What do you suppose this is? If I were being practical, I would assume it’s just a hideous duvet cover or bed skirt. But I prefer to think that it’s the cast off robe of a former king who, due to reduced circumstances, is forced to share this shithole building with the rest of us poor, consumptive, sexually ambiguous slobs.
*Lou Holtz, retired American football coach (most recently of Notre Dame and South Carolina). Wise words, buddy.
**Please subscribe to my blog. Click on the "Follow this Blog" link on the right side of the page and follow the instructions. It will make me so happy and I will be your best friend. 

Thursday, October 11, 2012

"I envy paranoids; they actually feel people are paying attention to them."*

   I’ve discovered a new way to get attention: wrap a bandage around your hand.
   I burned myself somehow the other day in that really inconvenient spot: the top of the knuckle of my first finger on my right hand. So everything I did (getting something out of my purse, folding laundry, washing my hands) made the mystery wound open back up. So I put on a band-aid and the band-aid kept getting wet or falling off randomly, so I wrapped my hand in bandage tape.
More intense than it looks?
   I really didn’t do it to get attention, but everywhere I go—even the gas station—people ask me what happened to my hand. And I have to say I’m loving it. Of course the injury has escalated in severity from “mystery burn” to “savage knife-fight wound,” but what stranger is going to know if I’m lying?
   In other news, I have another dream to share, even though I’ve insisted on numerous occasions that I hate sharing dreams. Maybe what I really hate is listening to other people’s dreams. So this is different because it’s my dream and therefore I am highly entertained by it. And you can skip this part if you want.
   In my dream, Em and I were bridesmaids at Gabe’s wedding. And we were at the rehearsal and her whole family made a conga line to go down the aisle. I remember feeling like that was really embarrassing, but that’s how Gabe wanted it, so that’s how it was going to be.
   But then the back of her dress split open and we had to fix it before the wedding later that night, which for some odd reason was set to begin at 10 p.m. She entrusted Em and I to go to the fabric store to get thread and fix it, but she kept saying, “I’m serious, you guys. You can’t smoke in the car with my dress in it.” Like we were 16 again. Ah, memories.
   But in the car I said to E, “I don’t think Gabe really wants me to be her bridesmaid.”
   And E said, “No, she doesn’t. But you complained about it so much that she decided to let you so you’d shut up. She’s really mad at you because you keep mailing pine cones to people.”
   Hmmm….what possible symbolism could pine cones have? And why would I mail them to anyone? Let alone repeatedly mail pine cones to many people as the dream implies?
From my forthcoming Pine Cone Series.

You will be happy to know that I did some pine cone research and came up with a few shocking/highly gratifying interpretations:
1.  Pine cones in a dream can symbolize wealth and good fortune. (I find this one suspect, as I think most things in dream dictionaries signify wealth and good fortune. On the other hand, if I was sending the pine cones to other people, it signifies how good I am at making money disappear.)
2.  They can also represent life and fertility. (Which has horrifying implications always.)
3.  According to a website which sells “Third Eye Pinecones” (I’m serious), the pine cone has for ages represented the human enlightenment. This website goes on to suggest that the term “pine cone” gets its name from the “pineal gland” of the brain, which is responsible for our perception of light. Hmmm…I always thought it got its name from the coniferous Pine Tree. But this is still my favorite interpretation for various (and obvious) reasons. So this is what I’m going with.
Pine cone with third eye. Pine cone series. Forthcoming. (Does anyone else think this looks like a California Raisin?)

   Anyway, this post is asinine and random, but I don’t really care too much. I may fix it later, but that seems doubtful.
*Susan Sontag.

Tuesday, October 9, 2012

"I'm so tired, I haven't slept a wink. I'm so tired, my mind is on the blink. I wonder should I get up and fix myself a drink."*

   Today marks the birthday of my boyfriend John Lennon. We’ve been conducting an extremely long-term relationship that began when I was in 7th grade and which exists solely in my head. And yet, it’s the best relationship I’ve ever been in because he never does anything to annoy me and he retains his good looks well past middle age because sadly…he’s dead. Which is why we’ll never lose the thrill of our first years together, even though I now wear real glasses and not the fake ones that I wore throughout junior high so I could be more like him. (It just occurred to me that in 10 years, he and I will be the same age! Creepy. And perversely romantic. It’s so Cathy and Heathcliff.)
   Anywho, happy birthday, John! And here’s a picture I drew of him in college. As you can tell from this drawing, I did NOT study art. But that didn’t stop me from drawing pictures and then showing them to everyone and pretending to think they were bad so that people were forced to compliment me. (I majored in confidence and passive aggression.)
Scanning this makes it look even worse.
   And here is a picture I drew last night. I don't think this is supposed to be possible, but I've become WORSE at art, despite my nonstop practicing. I was going for outlier status, but this is just sad. (Also, for the record, I embellished my figure ever-so-slightly. Artistic license.)
*John Lennon's "I'm So Tired." He thought a lot the same way I do.

Thursday, October 4, 2012

"Note that I wear the cowl neck, the official sweater of the obese."*

   Good news to share: I discovered this afternoon that if I stand in the doorway of my bathroom with the light off and only the slightest bit of natural light seeping in through the hallway and angle my body just so, it looks like I have some definition in my obliques on one side. Yes! 
    I might write more later today, but it's unlikely. For my brevity, you are welcome.
A photo of Prince** to get you through the day. I may get sued for this later this afternoon, so enjoy it while you can.

*Victoria Chase on Hot In Cleveland. Yes, I watch that show. So what?
**I love Prince. Prince, Prince, Prince.

Monday, October 1, 2012

"Never half-ass two things. Whole ass one thing."*

    My brain is all over the place lately, but today in particular. I have several things I want to write about, but none of them come together in a conveniently cohesive way, so I’m just going to spit it all out. I’ve done that before, so I feel like it’s okay. Once you set a precedent for letting people down, you’re allowed to do it as often as you want. It’s kind of like how if you have a friend that’s never on time for anything, you stop feeling disrespected and just add half an hour to whatever time they said they’d arrive. Even though you secretly always think of that friend as an asshole.
   So without further ado:
1. I recently started a Twitter account and I really don’t understand what it is. I follow people, but I don’t know what that means. I have followers but I don’t know what that does or what they see. I really don’t understand it at all. I feel really great when someone follows me, but I have no clue why it’s important or how it might improve my life. And if it’s not going to improve my life, why should I do it?
I am, however, a huge fan of their logo. 
2. Yesterday afternoon my friend Laura and I went to our favorite pub in Studio City: The Fox and Hounds. It’s one of those dark, wood-paneled places where all the food is really deliciously bad in that special English way and all the people that go there don’t have to wait for the sun to go down to start drinking.
   Since we aren’t football fans, we weren’t totally stoked to see the huge projector set up for the Green Bay/New Orleans game, but we weren’t surprised either. But there were only a handful of people in the joint, so it didn’t seem like it would be too obnoxious.
   But, despite the FOUR people that were actively watching the game, it was one of the more obnoxious experiences of life. This one douche canoe wearing a Goonies t-shirt kept yelling at the top of his voice every time ANYBODY did ANYTHING. He’d say stuff like, “Oh man, we’re catching up! Oh, we are totally going into O.T.! Oh damn, he fumbled! Oh wow, the sky is blue! Oh crap, commercial break! Oh geez, I need another beer!” He was totally out of line, in my opinion because:
a.     I’m pretty sure football season just started so calm the fuck down, Mister Goonies Shirt.
b.     He was standing in a corner table BY HIMSELF so it was unclear to whom he thought he was talking.
c.      Nobody else was giving a remote shit.
   Then, when we were leaving the bar after the game had ended (a coincidence because we so didn’t care about the game), we passed him as he smoked a bowl right outside the front door. Okay, dude. Whatever helps you relax from the crack you smoked earlier.
3. Though I’m no longer an actor, I was trained as one and even went to college and Master classes for it. I trained and practiced and worked at it for a long time. And so it kind of chaps my hide when people decide out of nowhere that they are now actors. Like they just woke up one day and decided to start going to auditions and making life harder for all the other 8 million working actors in Los Angeles. I hear pseudo-celebrities talking like this all the time. Paris Hilton was in a movie. Kim Kardashian was in a movie. Now Gabby Douglas is talking about how she wants to be an actor. Why? YOU ARE A GYMNAST. You have this whole other career, an amazing income, and absolutely no clue how to act. Why do you want to do it?
   I get that acting isn’t the same as lawyering or doctoring or accounting, and I’m also sure the people in those jobs never have people tell them that they’ve decided to open up their own law/medical/accounting practices out of nowhere and just “give it a shot.” I don’t think “educated” professionals have to put up with the same level of bullshit that actors do. But come on! It’s one of the hardest professions in the world because 98% of the profession is booking your next job because you beat all 500 other people that wanted it. Why do you think you can do it when so many other trained, TALENTED people can’t? Just please, shut up and go back to The Jersey Shore or The Real Housewives of Atlanta or the circus and quit pretending you are an actor.
4. I really like being 30, but I’ve noticed a couple things have changed within and on and around my body. For one thing, I have wrinkles around my eyes. I haven’t decided how I feel about that, but my first instinct was to run out and Botox the shit out of my face. Another problem is that I can no longer sleep 9-12 hours a night comfortably. I keep waking up before my alarm clock. It really sucks, because sleeping is one of the things I do best. And, as I’ve mentioned before, my body hair seems to be growing faster. It could be because it’s still ridiculously hot in LA and I have to keep wearing shorts every day so I simply have to stay on top of the leg hair, but it could also be that I’m old and my body is turning on me. But I’m not going to panic until I get a mustache.
5. I think Predator is a really stupid villain. Predator’s only skill is seeing heat and his face looks like a vagina with teeth. And his head is all pokey and looks a lot like a butt. And he has dreadlocks for god knows what reason and he’s just not that scary. I cannot fathom why they’ve made so many movies about that incredibly lame character. And I'm also ashamed that I've seen every last one of them. Sigh.
Wah-ha-ha! I'm Predator and I'm an upright dog wearing armor! I will tear out your spinal column!!
   Okay, that’s all for today. Excuse the randomness. I feel much better.

*The quote is from Ron Swanson on Parks and Recreation. I generally do exactly the opposite of this advice, as evidenced by this blog post.